


Tumblr Drabbles

by NightRoseBud



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27014221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightRoseBud/pseuds/NightRoseBud
Summary: On the rare occasion I get a prompt for a drabble on Tumblr, I will post it here. Type of prompt and who sent it will be in the chapter title. Will try to tag stuff as it's posted.
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander, Gunmar/Walter Strickler | Stricklander
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	1. Can I Exist? - FeatherDancer

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble based on a random song on shuffle for [FeatherDancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feather_Dancer). So I kind of cheated a little and put Missio on shuffle to choose a song. I have been wanting to do a fic using one of their songs for a while. [Can I Exist?](https://open.spotify.com/track/1PfstIZqhC77Xpctr80Urv) is not my favorite song from them, but I think it works for some Stricklake angst.

_Home is where they say the heart is  
Mine's buried in the yard _

Strickler let himself out of the Lake household, checking that Jim's Vespa was not waiting for him in the driveway: the only thing that could have ruined such an excellent evening. Young Atlas was probably off on his fruitless quest of requiring the Triumbric Stones. Let him. It kept Jim out of his hair and could even result in his death. 

_But what would that mean for Barbara?_

Strickler tried to ignore the pang of guilt he felt thinking about the good doctor while getting in his car. It wasn't his fault the Amulet had chosen Jim. It's wasn't his fault Jim didn't tell his mother what was going on, making her worry. It wasn't his fault that Jim put himself in harm's way and could end up in a troll's stomach. 

_But it is your fault he is being hunted by an undead assassin. It is your fault you are seeing his mother. It is your fault her fate is tied to yours, for better or for worse. And we all know it's for worse._

Strickler winced. He was getting emotional in his old age. It had to be done. He had no choice. 

* * *

_Hell's a place they say is for sinners  
I'll be the man in charge _

Strickler rubbed his eyes, trying very hard not to curse in Trollish while at school. "Otto," he gritted through clenched teeth, making his tooth ache even more. "I have gone over this already. Many times. This is for the benefit of _all_ Changelings." 

" _Ja, ja,_ you say that _mein freund,_ " Otto replied over the phone. "But I feel that if that is true, you won't object if I called a meeting of other Changelings to make sure it is not for the benefit of just _one_ Changeling." 

"No," Strickler responded, hopefully not too sharply, as he signed a form allowing Miss Janeth to take a field trip to the planetarium. "It won't be necessary." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his sore jaw. "What if I visited with the Lady today? See what she has to say?" 

"She talks to you?" Otto asked in awe. 

"Of course," Strickler lied. "And if she truly wanted Gunmar free, she would tell me." 

* * *

_But... how, can I exist? Within the mist of this?  
But... how, can I admit? That I would quit on you? _

Strickler went into the travel agency. The Changeling at the desk flashed him a broad smile. What was her name? Susan something. No matter. She was a terrible spy hence her role here behind a desk. 

"Good day, sir," she said with that disturbing smile. "Where would you like to go today? Down?" She grinned as she lifted the phone and dialed a number to make the floor move just as he stepped on the secret elevator. He didn't respond but started inspecting his nails. 

"You know," Susan said in the ensuing silence, "I saw something interesting the other night." Strickler looked at her, feigning indifference, but something in her tone made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "You were on a _date,_ " she continued. "A _doctor_ I have come to find out. You certainly have good taste, sir; she is _beautiful."_

"Just keeping up appearances," he drawled, but inside he was screaming. "You know how humans talk if you don't appear to be interested in a romantic relationship." 

"Oh, I know," she said, as the elevator continued down. The mural behind her was showing Gunmar with the Decimaar Blade. "But I was able to find out who she is. _Doctor Lake._ You wouldn't be sleeping with the enemy, would you, sir?" she asked innocently. 

He flashed her a smile, probably with more teeth than required. "Well, look at you, Susan," he said in cheer, and she blinked in surprise. "You find that out all on your own? Maybe you are a better spy than I thought." Susan blinked again but started looking smug. "I will reevaluate your position. See if you can go out on the field." 

"Thank you, sir! I appreciate it, sir! All glory to Gu— to the Pale Lady." 

"Yes," he agreed as the elevator stopped. "To the Pale Lady." He started to go down the hallway, the smile sliding off his face as soon as Susan was out of sight. Blast it all; he would have to take care of her before she blabbed to the whole Order. 

* * *

_I wrote God a simple letter  
Still haven't heard from him _

Strickler stood in the room that housed the phonograph. It always seemed silly to him how they had to talk to inanimate objects and instruments to hear her. But they didn't choose the vessel; she did. He started turning the handle to play the old record that had always lived on the phonograph. Maybe he could find another record to put on there. Wasn't there a record shop in Arcadia? Perhaps some punk rock for the Pale Lady. He smirked. 

There was nothing but static for several minutes, just long enough so he could tell Otto that he tried, he really tired, and just before Strickler gave up, he swore he heard a whisper. 

"Free... Gunmar..." 

He stopped completely. Well, that was nothing. His imagination really. He quickly exited the room. He had a dentist appointment to get to. No time to listen to old phonographs. Yes. Quite. 

* * *

_I must have really messed up this time  
Shit must have hit the fan _

Strickler stood in the street. He left. Otto left him. Otto. How many times had he gotten the other Changeling out of trouble? Just for Otto to stab him in the back. Metaphorically. Stickler would have been proud if it didn't mean his own head would be the one to roll. 

What should he do? Angor Rot would not stop until his head was ripped from his shoulders; that was abundantly clear. 

_Barbara!_

_Jim!_ There was the answer. Jim would have to protect him; he would have no choice if he wanted his mother to survive. Strickler winced. He didn't want anything to happen to Barbara either, dammit, but here he was, thinking about his own bloody hide. And what would happen if Jim insisted that he get rid of the bond? Would Jim throw him to Angor, as a peace offering? Surely he wasn't that cold? 

_Why not? You were that cold,_ said a voice in Strickler's head that sounded a lot like Barbara. 

He gulped and started walking towards the Lake residence. 

* * *

_But... how, can I exist? Within the mist of this?  
But... how, can I admit? That I would quit on you? _

Barbara was looking up, following the sounds of Jim fighting Angor Rot upstairs. Really, she was taking this better than Strickler had thought she would. Fainting spell and drinking a whole pitcher of water aside. 

"This tunnel leads to the sewers. You can get to the street," Strickler explained, gesturing to the giant hole in her basement. 

"What about my son?" she asked, hands clutched in front of her. Strickler followed her gaze, and they listened to the fighting for several tense moments. "What's going to happen to him?" she asked in terror. 

"No, you have to go!" he cried as she took a step towards the stairs. 

He grabbed her arm, but Barbara whirled in anger. "No! He needs my help!" 

"You don't understand," he started to explain, hands held up. "Our lives are bound magically." 

Barbara scoffed. "Are you really talking about our relationship right now?" 

_Oh, darling, if you only knew._

"My boy is in danger!" she cried, and blast it all, she had circled so that she had a clear shot to the stairs. Strickler grabbed her, fear for her and fear for himself making him rougher than he should be, and he winced when he felt the pain in his own shoulder. "Let me go!" she screamed, and she slapped him. A second later, her head jerked back as an unseen force hit her back. "Ow!" she cried, and then she clutched her cheek. "What was that?" 

"Listen to me!" he growled, emotions starting to run wild. Barbara needed to go, and maybe she needed to be scared enough to think of herself for one bloody moment. "Leave now!" And he let his eyes glow. 

"What are you, Walt?" she asked in awe. 

"I'm someone who can help your son... " 

_But weren't you the one who got him into this mess in the first place?_ something whispered in the back of his head. 

"...but I can't until I know you're safe." He put his hands up in a pleading motion. "Please," he begged. 

Barbara paused, and he could see the war on her face. A mother just wanting to help her son, her only child. And she opened her eyes, with the stare of a warrior, and issued a command he could finally follow. "Then go to him!" 

* * *

_But... how, can I admit? That I would quit on you?_

"Don't talk to me," she growls, a frosty tone of anger Strickler has never heard in her voice. "You're the one thing I'm looking forward to forgetting." 

And he sighs as she looks away. That's fair. He deserves her anger, her rage. The things he put her through, without her knowledge. This was the conclusion that he always knew would come if Gunmar had made it to the surface, if Angor had killed Jim, or if Jim had survived everything thrown at him. 

Better she forgets him. Forget his betrayal. Even if Jim told her the truth as he promised, she would be upset, but not sad. He would bear that pain. Bear the weight of his consequences. That would be better. Better for her. 

Quit their relationship, once and for all. 


	2. Tongue Bath - undignifiend & Stories_from_Unicron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not really a prompt. I saw [this post](https://undignifiend.tumblr.com/post/635520258110832640/good-morningevening-tongue-bath-breakfast-in) by [undignifiend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/undigniFiend) and was possessed by the spirit of Strickmar to write this soft (as soft as these two get anyway) story to go with it. Based loosely on [31 Days in the Darklands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945390/chapters/47228989) by [Stories_from_Unicron.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stories_from_Unicron/pseuds/Stories_from_Unicron)

"What in bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Strickler had been enjoying sleeping in the royal bed, stealing as much of the warmth the bed furs provided before getting up to start the day. He may not be happy with this forced marriage, but if he was to suffer in the Darklands, he was going to exploit his position to experience some luxuries. And surprisingly, being in the heated embrace of the Dark Lord was one of them.

But when he felt his husband join him in the middle of the night (and really, was there a "night" in a place where there was no hot ball of light in the "sky" to "set?"), he never thought he would awaken with a rough tongue lapping at his back, between his wings. It would have been pleasant if the Gunmar's breath didn't stink like some plague pits Strickler experienced in his lifetime.

Gunmar didn't pause in his ministrations, continuing to lap slowly at Stickler's back for a few more minutes before responding. "It's called grooming, Stricklander," he grumbled. The Gumm-Gumm gave another slow lick, from lower back to neck, nuzzling Stickler's hair and blowing hot breath through his nose. Strickler tried not to gag.

"Well, can you stop?" Strickler mumbled. His hair was surely a mess, and he would stink if Gunmar continued. Trolls did not sweat like humans, but their rough skin could collect particles of dirt and food that could rot and reek over time. True, Strickler didn't always bother to groom his troll form like his human one, but that didn't mean he invited such filth.

"You should smell like a proper troll," was Gunmar's response, and he did another lap with his rough tongue.

Strickler huffed. "Nothing proper about me," he muttered and was surprised to hear and feel Gunmar's coarse chuckle in his chest.

Gunmar continued slow and steady licks that Strickler would enjoy more if he weren't also getting a blast of putrid breath every time Gunmar's tongue would brush at his neck. Why was the Dark Lord doing this? Affection was not something he indulged in often, just a nuzzle or touch of his forehead on the changeling's, usually before mating.

Strickler considered the Dark Lord's weird behavior for a moment. If what Strickler heard was right (and it was hard to say it was, no one really engaged with much gossip with the impure after all), Gunmar has not taken any consorts since being banished to the Darklands. No concubines, no new brides, no royal courtesans. Gumm-Gumm kings were not known for their celibacy vows, so Strickler briefly wondered why the Dark Lord did not indulge in carnal encounters more often.

Maybe he was touch starved?

Strickler filed away this revelation; it was something to explore later. For now, Strickler had the more pressing matter of figuring out how to get the stink off him when Gunmar finished. Freshwater was scarce in the Darklands, heating it almost impossible. He may have to live with it until getting back to the surface lands.

Oh, joy.

Gunmar finished and leaned back, Strickler missing the warmth but also silently glad it was over. He felt a claw run down one of his wings and tried to stop a shudder. Gunmar didn't need to know how sensitive they were. "Do not worry, my queen," Gunmar said. Strickler turned his head to see the warlord grinning down at him, a playful gleam in his single eye. "I will have a Nyarlagroth killed, and you can bathe in its blood later." Strickler nearly choked, trying to make sure he didn't gag at Gunmar's suggestion.

"T-thank you, Dark Lord," Strickler stuttered, forcing his voice to be cheerful. "But why later?"

Strickler squawked as Gunmar grabbed his ankle and rolled him on his back, wings slapping on the furs from the force. Gunmar leaned in and leered, and Strickler felt his stomach drop. "Because, my queen," he purred, Strickler instincts screaming at him to run while Gunmar looked at him like a piece of meat. "We are not quite done with the morning's activities."


	3. Skin Deep -  Meg13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate prompt from [Meg13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg13/pseuds/Meg13). She sent F: "first words/thoughts your soulmate says/thinks when seeing you are written on your skin" for Stricklake. This mess is the result.

The mark shows up on Barbara's skin when she's 23. And it may not have been why James leaves, but she is sure it is the final nail in the coffin.

"'I'm sorry to disturb you, _Dr. Lake_ .'" James spat at her one evening. "Great, just great. You're telling me that I'm not your soulmate?"

Barbara rubs her forehead, suddenly so tired. Tired of the fights, of the long arguments, tired of coming home to a messy house, tired of the only one playing with Jim, tired of James being gone all hours of the night, never telling her where he is or who he is with. "I already told you, the mark is so generic, I won't be able to tell who is my soulmate is."

"But you will be able to tell. Because you will be a doctor and some _smooth asshole_ with a _degree_ will use _that phrase_ , and then you will fall head over heels for him, and that will be it, you will leave me. I hear that it happens all the time. Happened to my friend Kevin. His girl got a mark that wasn't in their first conversation together, and _bam!_ She left him!"

Barbara felt the anger rising in her throat, and she says the next part with a wave of cold fury that she never recalls feeling: "Then leave."

"Wha-what?" he sputtered.

"Leave James. Just leave. Because you will use the mark as an excuse to say I shouldn't finish my studies. That I shouldn't become a doctor, like you have been saying since we got married. It doesn't matter that my soulmate might never show up. That happens all the time, too, you know. Do you think I won't be faithful because of this thing? Fine. Then leave."

And he is standing there, a look of rage on his face. But he suddenly starts packing a suitcase of his clothes. And he storms out. And there will be tears. There will be days that Barbara regrets her words. Days that she has to explain to her son that his father is not coming back to finish the bike. Days she worries that her son is growing up too fast to take care of her when she should be taking care of him, dammit. But at that moment, she feels relief. And hope.

Maybe her soulmate will show up after all.

* * *

"Sorry to disturb you, Doc," says the nurse. "Can you check on the guy in room four? He's asking for a doctor."

Barbara smiles, feeling a little disappointed. The phrase is not quite right. And she knows that she has talked to this nurse before. But she can't help it. Whenever someone says something remotely close to her mark, she gets butterflies in her stomach, and she has to wonder: _Are they the one?_

She has also had some people ask her out. But she just smiles and declines. Because they didn't say anything close to the mark when they first met. And some of them get upset when she explains why. Some are gracious about it. Still, others wiggle their eyebrows and ask if she wants to have some fun. She still declines.

"Sure, let me see what I can do," she says with a smile.

* * *

"Hey, mom?"

"Yes?"

"Do you, you know, have a mark?"

Barbara blinks. Funny, she has already had the sex talk with Jim. That was surprisingly easy. But she never told her son about the soulmate mark. It's rare. And she doesn't know how to explain to him that the mark on her skin is not the first conversation she had with his father.

She hesitates, but finally, she moves the shirt on her shoulder down until Jim can see the mark, like a small tattoo, on her shoulder blade. She has never seen it herself, only in the mirror.

"'I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Lake,'" he reads. "Huh. That's kinda..."

"Vague?" she jokes. "Yeah, it often is. If you're lucky, you get something like 'Hi, my name is John.' Otherwise, you get something that is impossible to say if you have met your soulmate or not."

"Let me guess, that wasn't the first thing Dad said to you," Jim says bitterly.

"No, it was not," she confessed. "And I didn't get the mark until I was older. It can show up later in your life if you're unlucky. Your father... wasn't happy about it."

Jim looks grim as she moves her shirt back up. He suddenly moves the sleeve of his shirt so that she can see his forearm. There is a smudge there like he has been writing on his arm. But she knows that isn't the case. If they sent hours scrubbing his skin, that stain would never go away. In a few years, it will form a phrase, his own soulmate mark. "I don't know what to do with this," he says.

"Guard it. Hide it. Some people would use it to take advantage of you. Try to make you think they are the one. Of course, they have to have the matching mark." She got up, collecting dishes from dinner (something Jim saw prepared on TV, something in French she can't pronounce, and it's _so good_ ), and she heads to the kitchen. "Of course, you may never find them. Your soulmate. Which makes no sense because if you have the mark, then that means you should have that first conversation with them." Barbara paused while putting the dishes in the sink. "But that is the way it is. You meet someone, and they say the phrase, and they are the one for you. Or so they say."

Jim looks over his shoulder, so she can see his profile but not read the look on his face. "So you got the mark after you and Dad met?" he asked. "Doesn't that make you... I don't know, mad? Like you wasted some of your time on the wrong person."

"No," she said. "I don't regret marrying your father. I wouldn't have had you. I just regret that he wasn't here for you growing up. I think the mark hurt his pride. I sometimes wonder if I should have hidden it from him." She stopped. She had always tried to keep her opinions about James to herself, especially the bad ones. But Jim just nodded and then got up to join her in the kitchen.

"Well, I hope the mark doesn't turn out to be my first conversation with someone like, I don't know, Steve Palchuck. I can't see him as my soulmate."

Barbara laughed, feeling some relief in coming clean with her son. She picked up a plate to wash it. "Well, let's hope it's not the school bully at the very least."

* * *

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Lake," says the man on her doorstep. "I know it's terribly late."

For a split second Barbara stares at the stranger, feeling those butterflies in her stomach. _He said it,_ she thinks, _he said the phrase. Exactly as it is on my skin._ But she shakes herself out of her shock a second later. She knows this man.

And she is having a flashback to a few months ago at the open house at Jim's school. She had been running late, so she didn't get introduced to Jim's History teacher, a man with black hair greying at the temples and tailored clothes. Jim talked about Mr. Strickler at length, though, telling Barbara everything that happened in history class with an air of barely contained excitement. So at least she knows him in a way.

"No worries, Mr. Strickler," she responds, hoping to see a spark of recognition on his face. If he is the one, he should have a matching mark on his shoulder. And she should have said the matching words. But his face doesn't change, and Barbara feels her stomach drop. Another false alarm. "Please come in. Anything wrong with Jim?"

"Oh, I don't think so," he drawls, stepping inside. His eyes slide over the furniture, his face staying neutral. "I just wanted to congratulate Jim on getting the part of Romeo in the school play."

"He did? Wait, he tried out for the school play? He didn't say anything to me."

"Hmmm," Mr. Strickler hummed. "Yes, I'm worried he may be spreading himself too thin. Can we discuss this further?"

 _Only if you let me take your clothes off, so I can see your shoulder._ "Of course. I'll make some tea."

* * *

Nomura stalked into the museum, hissing at the goblins as she limped. The human Trollhunter was proving to be harder to kill than they initially thought. With Draal at his house, Nomura's plan to kill him in an "accident" was futile. She and Strickler would have to come up with a better idea.

Strickler stood in the middle of the large space that used to hold Killahead Bridge in his troll form. Once they were sure the Trollhunter wouldn't bring any trolls to look for it, they would get the bridge back from the warehouse they hid it in. "You failed," he growled, and she paused. Why was he in troll form? To kill her?

"He won't always have Draal with him," she said, trying not to pout. "I will get him next time.

"You think I'll let you have a 'next time?'" he hissed and started to stalk off. He pushed past her, and she glared at his back. But suddenly, she grabbed him and squinted at his shoulder blade, moving his cape to get a better look. "What are you doing?" he asked with a growl.

"How long have you had this mark?" she asked. "It's in Trollish. It says 'No worries, Mr. Strickler.'"

"What are you talking abo—" but his angry words cut off as his eyes grew in shock.

She leered at him, sensing that she found some sore spot to exploit. "It's a soulmate mark, isn't it? Tell me, Strickler, which love-struck teen have you got wrapped around your finger, hm?"

Strickler didn't respond, but his look of disbelief just turned into distress. He transformed, hiding the mark with his human clothes. "Forget it," he tried to order her, but his voice didn't have any venom to it. "It doesn't matter. It would be sleeping with the enemy. Completely impossible." He checked his jacket and straightened the lapels. "Just... nevermind." And he stormed out into the night.

Nomura blinked. Well, that was surprising. She didn't know why Strickler was so upset. Soulmate marks were complete bushigal. Look at her.

Her soulmate mark with Draal had been a lie.


	4. Give and Take - Meg13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having a bad night one night and asked for fluff prompts to help me feel better. [Meg13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg13/pseuds/Meg13) asked for some Stricklake and it was just what the doctor ordered to make me feel better. Ha! What the doctor ordered... isn't it funny? ...I'll see myself out.

Barbara had always heard that relationships should be "give and take." You give something to your partner, and they give it back to you. Balance. Steadiness. Support. Her experience had always been different, though. Partners would take, but the give? It would be a hard fight, one that she always felt she shouldn't back down from.

But with Walt, it was different.

He gave up the collar of knives for her. One morning she woke up and shuffled to the kitchen to a full coffee pot and her favorite omelet, only to notice that his collar was made of gleaming black feathers and not metal. She bumped her forehead on his as a greeting as he fed one of the babies at the dining room table. "I like the new look," she said as he hummed.

"I was worried that I might hurt you or one of the children," he explained.

She hesitated as she sat down and grabbed a fork. "Wasn't that..." She trailed off, and he raised an eyeridge in a question. "Wasn't that the main part of your defense?" she asked.

"Yes, but I haven't left us completely vulnerable," Walt explained, and he stood up and reached into the chandelier and brought out a knife, and expertly ran it across his knuckles before wiggling it in front of the giggling child. "The first rule of fighting, never be without a weapon. Yes, that's right. Never be without a weapon, aren'tyousocute, yes you are." And she laughed.

She gave up some of her time for him. They had watched history documentaries before, but now Walt was free to talk about his personal experiences throughout history. (Barbara didn't let him know, but she also let him ramble because she was trying to tell how old he was, and his hour-long lectures gave her so many clues.) He would have to pause the show and correct some piece of history or dive into the subject further, his hands and arms gesturing in the air while he talked.

"So wait, Napoleon wasn't short?"

"No, the man was five foot, six. Not a mountain of a man, but for the time? It was average."

"So why the myth?" she asked with a grin, taking a sip of her wine as he took a deep breath—a sure sign he was winding up for a lecture.

"At the time of his death, it was recorded that he was five foot, two. But he was measured in French inches, which were longer than English inches."

"Ok, now that is bullshit."

"Go ahead. Look it up on the internet if you don't believe me."

"I will."

"And when you see I'm right, you will owe me a favor."

She paused before unlocking her phone. "What kind of favor?"

He hummed. "You'll see." He leaned towards her and grinned, a smile of tusks and sharp teeth, a sight that should make her afraid, but she returned the grin.

"Alright let's see..." She spent several minutes looking at her phone and then scowled at the smiling changeling. "Napoleon's height was recorded in French inches." He barked a laugh. "But this site has his height as five foot, five, so no favor for you."

"What? No, let me see." And he grabbed her phone and muttered to himself. "Well, favor is still in effect. To be called right now." And with that, he stood up and scooped her up, and took her upstairs to the bedroom as she laughed.

He gave up his comfort for her. There was a mask he could wear that made him look human again. But it was awkward and smelt awful. "Like a wet dog covered in garbage," he explained. But he wore it for her, when they met with new parents or went to another city, so they could walk down the street, arm in arm. They could do that at home, but somehow the fact that he did it with the mask made her so happy.

She gave up cooking for him. It wasn't a sacrifice, sure, but letting him cook for her was something she had to work on. It was one thing when Jim had done it, he had to eat too. But letting Walt cook for her when he couldn't eat it himself? And then he would sit with her and talk as she ate. And talk with her as she cleaned the kitchen. She learned to look forward to it, a warm meal when she got home, and the company to go with it.

He gave, she gave. He gave. She gave. And around and around until it was second nature, full of love and understanding.

Give and take.

It was the best thing Barbara could hope for.


End file.
